


The Way To a Man's Heart Is Through Arrows

by czarna_pantera



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: A.R.G.U.S., Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archery, Arrow Making, Arrowcave, Carrie Is Patient, Carrie Knows How to Make Flu-flu Arrow and Oliver Don't, Carriver, Complicated Relationships, Crazy Red-Head, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Love, Obsession, Romance, Shooting a Bow, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/czarna_pantera/pseuds/czarna_pantera
Summary: It is not the first time Oliver has brought Carrie Cutter to his hideout. She is the only woman that can satisfy his very specific needs... give him something the others are not able to. Carriver. And a lot of archery references.





	1. Striking a Chord

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot split into three parts, because: composition. Carriver (Carrie Cutter/Oliver Queen). AU—for obvious reasons.
> 
> Many thanks to Perosha for beta. :)

It is not the first time Oliver has brought Carrie Cutter to his hideout. She is the only woman that can satisfy his very specific needs... give him something the others are not able to. Saying that he "borrows" her from A.R.G.U.S. wouldn't exactly sound nice, even if it is true, so he prefers to think of it as doing her a favor. After all, it is what she has always asked for—to be with her "man"...And she is let out of the custody for a couple of hours, even if it is only to perform a very special...task.

"What are we going to do, lover?" she asks softly, as usual thinking that maybe today he will want it another way.

But there is only one thing he asks her to do. And she does it without protest. With perfection and precision. It is hard to not admire her nimble fingers and her attention to detail.

 _Hell, that makes her attractive. Very attractive_ , he thinks suddenly.

She smiles lightly with the corner of her mouth, knowing that she draws his gaze like the centre of the archery target. Even though he pretends that he is going about his own business on the other side of the foundry.

When she is finished, she turns toward him in the swivel chair, leaning slightly to one side on her elbow against the arm-rest. She crosses her legs, watching him like a hawk as he approaches her to check her work. For some reason she's wearing today a short red skirt matching her nail polish and high heeled knee-length black boots. As if she really came here on a date.

If she had talked dirty, provoking him, he would have just scoffed and turned away his gaze, a little embarrassed. It would be easier to ignore her _wishes_ , and keep the right distance between two of them.

But this is some new technique of seduction. Small smile dangling on her lips, a strand of red curly hair she casually plays with... And complete silence. She had wanted to conquer him, now it is as if she is asking to be conquered. She waits on his move patiently, looking at him expectantly with a gleam of desire in her eyes. There is something... primal in her behavior. As if she considered him to be the most fine specimen in the vicinity, the strongest male, the best possible match.

She might not say anything, but the signals she sends are louder than words. _Tell me that you own me. Tell me I'm yours._

It is almost as if she had struck some chord, deeply hidden in him up to this moment. A spark that ignites a sudden urge to take her here and now. Give in to that madness without thinking about the consequences. There is no doubt she would let him do whatever he wanted.

He wonders briefly if holding her in arms would be like holding a fire. Is she as passionate a lover as her moniker and playful flirtatious behavior suggest? Does she care who is hiding under the hood, or does it not matter to her at all?

He is tempted to check.

Almost.

He blinks, coming back to his senses. A sudden realization of how close he was to letting go of his restraints is like a bucket of ice-cold water spilled over his head. _For fuck's sake, what were you thinking?_ —he disciplines himself.

A glimpse of disappointment flashes in Carrie's eyes. She realizes that the moment when _something_ could happen, has just passed. A fish slipped out from the net. An arrow that seemed to hit the centre of an archery board bounced back in the very last moment, hitting a lost arrowhead that was stuck in the foam block.

Again.

Oliver ignores her the best he can and only takes the arrows she has just glued for him to check if they are well balanced. He feels Cupid's longing gaze touching his back when he turns away and returns to the other side of the foundry. He doesn't want to be too close to her. Just in case. And he desperately tries to not think about his true name that is always on her lips, his hands on her hips, and if one night spent with her would indeed change _everything_.


	2. Sweeter Than Lilac, More Tart Than Gooseberry

It is not the first time her lover has invited her to his Arrowcave. Fortunately the two decision makers—the only two that matter—have nothing against these small excursions. Lyla Michaels (wonderful woman!), the head of Task Force X, has no objection to granting Cupid a day off from time to time as a reward for good behavior and obedience. Amanda Waller, for a change, is rather amused by the fact that the Arrow has gotten the idea to ask no one else but Cupid to help him make arrows.

"He always liked to play with fire... and was into obsessive murderers before," she overheard Waller once and felt an instant sympathy to her. So even she had noticed that there must have been _something more_ in that relationship. Gluing the arrows was only a pretext to see Carrie. He must have been scared of his feelings toward her, but all he needed was some time. And Carrie was patient. _Very_ patient.

After spending some time with the Arrow, Carrie is always filled with exhilaration. It doesn't hurt her effectiveness in performing missions. Quite the contrary. She feels as if she could move mountains, and does everything she is asked without uttering a word of protest. For she knows that she will eventually get her reward—her next meeting with the Arrow. And she clings to the hope that maybe... maybe finally they will get as close to each other, as she fantasizes every night when she lies alone in darkness on her narrow, empty and cold bed in the cell.

Only her shrink, Doctor Pressnall, is very critical of these visits. Somehow she doesn't consider them to be therapeutic. She keeps saying some nonsense about fueling Carrie's obsession this way, and doing her more harm than good. As if she cared! She knows nothing about true love. She is ignorant to the strength of her feelings toward the vigilante. And his feelings toward her. Even though she could now see for herself that the Arrow wanted Carrie. That he had asked for her.

Well, technically he asked for her specific set of skills... But it doesn't exclude the fact that he has finally realized that he needed her and couldn't live without her.

She can't wait till she is taken to his hideout. She can't wait till her escort from A.R.G.U.S. leaves the two of them alone. Even if the Arrow hardly offers her a word of greeting. Keeps his distance from her. Even avoids looking at her, even though today she wears her best red skirt and black V-necked blouse, working extremely well with her caramel leather jacket.

But it doesn't matter to her. She is happy just being around him. Those moments are sweeter than lilac, and more tart than gooseberry. She is so close to him and so far away at the same time, as if they were divided by some invisible wall. He never allows her to get into his personal space. She can only drink in his presence from distance. Hell, the mere way he walks... He looks so damn sexy in that tight suit. She would kiss the earth beneath his feet.

As usual he gets straight to the point. And that point is not declaring his love to her, admitting that up until this moment he has tried to suppress his true feelings. _What he asks her to do is make arrows for him_ out of the components he orders separately from different online archery stores. She has managed to get out of him that he himself paints green the Easton carbon shafts, and has some source that supplies him with the custom made arrowheads. Dark green and dirty yellow feathers (or occasionally olive and brown, depending on the availability), and ordinary black nocks are shipped from various Eastern European countries.

She admires how cautious and resourceful he is. And is glad that she can help him in his mission, even if it is in such a _symbolic_ way (how _much_ she wished she could take a place at his side).

She had glued the arrows for him even when the fletching toll was broken and she had to attach every feather to its shaft by hand separately. She was sure no other woman would make such a sacrifice. Afterwards she spent a better part of an hour picking out dried glue from under her nails with a toothpick.

When she is finished, he comes near her, to examine the results of her job. Sometimes he even offers a word of appreciation. She so thirsty for any sign that he notices her existence and sees a person in her (not only some automaton producing arrows) that she takes it as the greatest possible compliment. Even if it feels like stealing some frantic moments of his attention. His love.

She feels burning desire for him. She wants him so badly that it is insane. Her heart is beating like a drum, and she swears he can hear it. After all, it makes such an almighty sound... Louder than sirens... Louder than bells... If he had only allowed her to, she would give him a hell of a ride. An unforgettable night. How much she wishes he would touch her the same way he was touching his bow when he was busy with its maintenance, waxing the cables and the string.

But she makes no move, leaving it entirely up to him. For her shrink was not entirely unsuccessful in her therapy. Carrie has become calmer—even if it was the calmness of a winding wild river that reached lower ground. She was given a purpose (other than getting into the Arrow's pants) and had won the appreciation of her team members and superiors. Thanks to the therapy sessions she was more outspoken about her needs, more patient, and understood that on a very first date she shouldn't mention to a guy that they were meant to be together and that she wanted to bear his children. For some reason it tended to freak them out.

So she keeps sending him signals (and only signals) that she still wants him and is ready for him, although such controlled behavior requires a lot of self-control. She gives him yet another chance to let go of his ridiculous restraints that hold him back.

They have shared only one truly intimate moment. But he had used her own feelings against her to her take down. A betrayal for sure, but she forgave him a long time ago. There is nothing she wouldn't forgive him.

For a moment she thinks that he will finally make that move. There is something in his eyes... A small spark that can start a wildfire.

But then he breaks eye contact and shows interest only in those damn arrows. As if they were more sexy than she is. It is almost as if he has said:

_I can't be with you. I can't be with anyone._

Yeah, right.

Carrie sighs and stops playing with a strand of her hair. Yet again he raised her up just to tear her down.

And she begins to think that maybe... maybe he gives no quarter for her love after all.


	3. Hitting the "x"

"You know... You have never told me why you've started to use an Oneida Kestrel," says Cupid casually, trying to draw the Arrow's attention.

A slight move of his hood indicates that he has heard her, but he doesn't say a word. Moreover, he keeps to the opposite side of his hideout, as if he is afraid to be near her. Carrie is still sitting by the table she has been working by for the past couple of hours, cluttered with loose feathers, nocks, arrowheads, various types of glues (fast dry for nocks, special one for the feathers), some spare shafts, sandpaper and fletching tools (thank goodness that he had finally invested in new ones, she was ready to steal it from the A.R.G.U.S. workshop to save her nail polish).

What does he think? What is he afraid of? That she will throw herself at him? There had been a time when she thought about that, but now...

_If you won't respect yourself, nobody will._ One of many pieces of advice from her dear shrink. And something about self-esteem and giving the potential partner some space and time... She had given him _a lot_ of space and _a hell of a lot_ of time. And she has wanted him to make that final move. She is sure that he has been one step from finally doing something. Maybe even making another use of this table, thinks Carrie dreamily. But then she examines it critically and decides that maybe better not. Too many sharp objects. But she has caught a glimpse of a bed in the shadowy corner. A bed would definitely do. Pity that the mood is gone...

"You look like a traditional-intuitive-aiming type of guy," says Carrie. "Why compound? You had that sweet recurve..."

"I still shoot barebow," he remarks.

Again there is silence. The Arrow has no intention of elaborating. Carrie tries to engage him in conversation again, keeping to a neutral and safe archery topic.

"Never considered using other colors of feathers besides dark green and olive?"

No reaction.

"You know, for example green with black as a cock-vane... They would make an excellent combination."

"No," he says curtly. "Why are you suddenly showing so much interest in my choice of color of the feathers and the weapon?" he asks suspiciously.

"I'm trying to make a conversation here. Something that should be up to you. You should at least keep me entertained," she says boldly. "I'm your guest."

He glances at her, finally.

"You're not my guest."

"Then what am I? Cheap labor? " she says sarcastically.

He doesn't protest, and for some reason Carrie feels really hurt. Arrowmaking automaton then. She gets up.

"Hey, where're you going?" asks the Arrow vigilantly.

"Toilet," she snaps, walking toward the stairs. She knows where the former club's facilities are from her previous visits here. "And for your information: it's freezing cold in your hideout. You could at least make some hot tea, if you have no better ideas of how to keep a woman warm..."

She spends some time upstairs. A lash gets into her eye, and for two or three minutes she tries to get it out without smearing her make-up.

When she finally gets rid of it, she takes a step back to examine her reflection in the mirror. She realizes she appears to be a bit tired. Another sleepless night and what comes of it? Nothing. Well, not getting laid tonight is not a surprise. But being bored during those few precious hours she spends with her lover is a painful disappointment indeed.

He could at least talk with her. See a person in her... It is not too much to ask, is it?

When she gets back there is a steaming green mug with a fine freshly brewed Earl Grey tea waiting on her desk. Loose leaves not teabags. She takes the mug in both hands and looks lovingly at the Arrow, but he ignores her again.

So Carrie has to find a way to occupy herself. When she sips her tea, a small plastic bag containing uncut feathers catches her attention. Each of them is roughly ten inches long. They are mostly green, but she notices also a few olive and brown. How could she not have noticed them earlier? They are so beautiful! They must have been buried under other things on the table... Suddenly a new idea comes into her head. She puts the mug down and reaches for the feathers.

When for a good fifteen minutes there is silence, the Arrow looks up to check on her. He knows her well enough to realize that sitting idle just doesn't suit her.

Carrie is about to finish spiraling the second feather around the shaft.

"Look, lover! I've made a flu-flu arrow for you," she chirps, separating the vans with her nail to fluff them out.

Yes, a new arrow, and one as rare as a flu-flu, is a way to bait him. He comes near, intrigued.

She shows him the arrow. She has used green and olive feathers, and this combination of colors looks surprisingly nice.

"It's very good," he says, after he examines it up and down. Carrie reads it as the greatest compliment and feels a surge of pride. _He said it is very good._

"There was a time I used something similar..." he remarks suddenly.

Cupid has a very vivid imagination (contrary the to belief of many, it is not reduced only to fantasies involving her and the Arrow in very intimate situations) but even she can't find many practical uses for flu-flus.

"For hunting?" she asks, making a wild guess. She can't imagine herself shooting at poor birds (she has no problem with shooting people, though), but that is what flu-flus are used for most frequently.

"For hunting... for surviving," he says absentmindedly. "Not exactly like this one though. With high feathers."

Carrie instantly knows about which type of arrows he is talking.

"Don't like them. They look rather ugly."

He chuckles. For the first time he seems to be truly relaxed in her presence. As if he was talking with someone who just happened to share his common hobby.

"Ugly or not, they're practical, won't get lost in the undergrowth and bushes..."

"What did you hunt?" Carrie doesn't take her eyes off him, thirsty for any piece of information about him.

"Mostly birds. They were easily accessible..." Suddenly he realizes that he might tell her too much. "Maybe just finish the work..." he says hastily, putting the flu-flu down.

"I'm already finished!" she replies, folding her arms. "And the A.R.G.U.S. guys won't come for me for another hour or so. I'm bored! And you... You're so very ungrateful..."

The Arrow sighs. He hesitates for a moment, as if he has been pondering over something, then finally says:

"Okay. What do you want to do?"

She smiles, narrowing her eyes, and gets up slowly.

"...beside that," he clarifies sternly, instantly guessing what she is about to propose.

"You're no fun, lover."

"I'm not your lover," he says with a tired tone.

She glances around the hideout and focuses on the archery targets: cubes made of foam, placed on one another. Protective nets are hanging behind them. Apparently he has his own indoor archery range. Logical. The Arrow couldn't exactly practice in some open field or public facility.

"Will you shoot a bow? With me? You have some spare ones here, I guess? A lot of spare ones?"

"Many," he confirms.

"Ah, a collector! I knew, I knew it!"

He leads her to the part of the foundry where he keeps his gear. He doesn't have any special display for his bows. Some are hidden in a large old wooden chest, its faded green paintwork scraped and scratched. Others in special cases (compound bows) or simply in a bowsleeve (longbows).

She ponders briefly over a black bow, but then she comes across a longbow. It has elegant slim limbs with a slightly reflexed design. She checks the description on its side—66"32#14. Not much of a challenge. Normally she draws back 45 pounds.

"I'll borrow some of your wingman's arrows. I guess he wouldn't mind. I like the color of the fletching," she comments. Arsenal is using the same combination as she does—two red feathers and a black one as a cockfeather.

Since she doesn't have a quiver, she puts the arrows on a nearby table to easily reach for them without losing the archery stance every time.

With her own recurve she uses a thumb draw, but with a longbow there is no need for that. She goes with a three-finger draw—more comfortable since she doesn't have her gloves. She was always very flexible in that matter. She'd tried shooting various bows with various techniques until she found what suited her the best.

The Arrow has better results than her, there is no question. His arrows always land in the yellow circle in the middle. He is so precise and so disciplined. He's mastered the repetitiveness of the shots to perfection. Some of her arrows get between them, looking as if they shared her desires and wanted to cuddle with the green ones. But others hit red and blue. Good, but not good _enough_.

Maybe that is the reason why he doesn't want her?

She hasn't realized that she must have said something along those lines aloud until she catches his somewhat perplexed glance.

"Carrie..." he says solemnly. "It has nothing to do with your... archery skills. I'm just not interested in you... that way."

"Yeah, right," she narrows her eyes and blurts out, without giving a second thought if it will come out creepy or simply improper. "Then why just moments ago was your arrow so _very_ eager to find _a way_ to my quiver?" she asks innocently.

It is a shot in a dark, but it has surprising effect on the Arrow, who has been taking aim. The string slips out of his fingers and almost smacks him in the left forearm. The arrow flies a little too high, brushes the upper part of the archery target and gets tangled into the protective net hanging beside.

Carrie smiles widely.

"Ooops. Missed. Don't worry, dear. It happens even to the best. And the offer of the night I promised you is still valid, by the way. Whenever you want it. Wherever. In whatever way..."

"You have some wild fantasies running in your head, don't you?" he scoffs. He doesn't look at her, his eyes on the target.

She tilts her head, amused by his confusion. She was a queen of imagining things.

"Oh, with as many as arrows I've made for you. You don't?" she teases him.

"No," he answers. A bit too hastily.

"Liar," she sums up curtly, and reaches for an arrow to nock it on the bowstring.

She can't stop thinking that he looks so damn sexy in this green leather suit and shoots the bow so very gracefully. Reaching for the quiver for an arrow, nocking it on the bowstring, drawing to the corner of his mouth, release—everything happens in one fluid motion . She could watch him do this all day (or rather all night), but unfortunately they don't have it.

"If I hit the centre of the centre, will I get a kiss?" she makes a bold proposal suddenly.

"Yeah, sure." He apparently doesn't take it seriously.

They don't exchange a word during the next two rounds. However, after the third, when they go to collect the arrows, Carrie sees from far away that this time she did better than her lover. An arrow with red-and-black fletching has landed exactly in the middle.

She smiles and sends him a meaningful look.

"Bullseye, darling."

"I didn't say that I agreed to anything," he says dismissively, showing no admiration for her achievement. Even though hitting a small "x" from 30 yards is not easy.

He quickly takes his arrows out of the target and puts them back in his quiver. Then he goes back to the shooting line, not waiting for her to retrieve all her arrows. How very rude!

"Are you shooting or what?" he urges her, for some reason seeming to be slightly annoyed.

She delicately makes it slower. The arrow that hit the centre of the target is the last one she pulls out. Then she joins him on the shooting line. He does a good job of pretending to ignore her completely.

Carrie, not discouraged at all, takes her bow and reaches for an arrow, but doesn't put it on the string just yet.

"You don't want to talk... You don't want to play... You could at least show me your face... Oliver."

Seeing the utterly surprised expression appear in his eyes is a treasure. She makes a small laugh.

"Don't look at me like that! I've known for some time. And as you can see, I haven't advertised that knowledge. It just never mattered to me."

She nocks an arrow on the bowstring casually, secretly glad that now she has his full attention. She draws the string back, aims for two or three seconds and smoothly sends the arrow flying. She hits red, close to the yellow circle. Maybe she has even touched it, which means a higher score. But she doesn't care about her results now. All that matters is him.

She lowers the bow and looks at him admiringly.

"You're the Arrow for me. Always was. Always will be. It's your true self... the best version of you," she says passionately.

He hesitates for a moment, but then puts his Oneida down on a nearby metal case. Without saying a word, he pulls down his hood and takes off his masks. And he already looks as if he were standing before her naked.

"You're one a very handsome guy, that's for sure," she sighs.

She leaves the bow on a table and approaches him slowly, closing the distance between them.

"What about that kiss?" she asks softly when she is barely a step away from him, hanging on the edge of his personal space. Just like the arrow she has just shot. She wouldn't dare to come nearer, not after how it ended the last time.

To her surprise he decides to make a move. His hand finds a way to the back of her neck, slipping under her long red hair. Her heart starts to beat a little faster. She thinks that it is the moment when he will finally pull her closer to kiss her _willingly_ , but his fingers only brush her skin.

She would have found it odd if in an instant she hadn't realized what he is searching for. So she takes his hand in her own and directs it a little higher.

"It's here. A guarantee that I will be a good girl and behave."

It is the place where a small post-operative scar can be sensed. It is where they put a tracker in her, and a detonator that could kill her in a split second if she went rogue. They are both no bigger than a grain of rice. She prefers to not imagine herself with a missing head. And not to remember that she is constantly monitored by A.R.G.U.S.

Did he know it was there? Probably. He withdraws his hand and although he says nothing, she senses that he feels some guilt over handing her over to Waller. It is written all over his face.

"Don't worry, lover. I've forgiven you long ago," she assures him. She is closer to him than ever. Save for that short intimate moment in the underground tunnel, when he used her feelings to betray her. But she did her best to forget about that as well. "With me... you can choose what stays, and what fades away. And you know, I'm a very, very good kisser," she whispers into his ear. She makes a bold move and nibbles his earlobe, unknowing that it has always been a huge turn in for him.

He could freak out and push her away. But he doesn't. Actually does quite the opposite.

"Ah, to hell with that," he mutters, and suddenly she finds herself in his embrace.

And they kiss. They finally kiss, and it is as if she has touched the heaven. Craving for any sign of him showing her his affection, she absorbs that moment as some desert plant drinks greedily a small rain when it finally comes. For her it might as well be a downpour. She is so thirsty for his love.

"And... was it so bad?" she whispers when they break the kiss.

"Not at all," he admits, offering her a weak smile. Apparently he is surprised himself that he finally gave in to those feelings.

And he kisses her again. And again, on the neck. Uh-oh, bad memories. But this time she knows exactly where _both_ of his hands are. Lovely.

She quickly unzips his jacket, but he stops her before she manages to slip it off his shoulders.

"Hey, hey, what're you doing?" he asks.

"I thought that we're finally giving it a shot," she says lovingly, not even acknowledging a possibility that it will end only in cuddling. She desires his body so much that it is almost hurting—it is like a thin flame burning under her skin. She wants to drag her teeth across his bare chest to taste his beating heart. Become one with him, like string with a bow. They are meant for each other—she is sure of that. Their paths have crossed for a reason.

"Carrie. It's not... normal."

"What's not normal?" she asks, genuinely surprised.

Does he think that getting together with her was beneath him? Well, that could be easily solved. She has many ideas about how to make their getting together-together very interesting. And more wild that he could ever imagine.

"To progress... so fast," he clarifies.

"Don't talk like my shrink," she sighs, clinging to him. "I love you. I want this. I'm alone, you're alone, so what's the problem?"

"How do you even know it's love?"

She looks deeply into his eyes—blue like her own.

"You saved my life. What I've been doing... I'm doing for you. To be like you," she says passionately. "You're on my mind all the time, my hero... And every night I'm dying from worry for you... Oh, don't look so surprised," she says, when she catches his puzzled look. "It's a dangerous world out here and you're alone against them..."

She ignores as the best as she can the existence of the Black Canary. And the subtle signs that they might be another woman present in his life. A pink mug standing next to a computer console. A fern plant in a pot. A notebook with notes looking like they were written with a female handwriting.

"If it's not love, then what is?" she asks.

She cuddles up to him, resting her head against his shoulder, glad, so very glad that he doesn't push her away. He is confused and hesitant, but when he strokes her back, there is genuine tenderness.

"So... what will we be doing?"

He doesn't say anything for a long while.

"Carrie, I... I think that you... you need to go."

"What?" It is not what she wanted to hear.

"It's 5 a.m. They're already waiting to take you back..."

Damn. Damn. _Damn._ Not at such a moment. Not when everything was progressing in such a good direction. An image of a flying flu-flu arrow flashes through her mind. It flies like a normal arrow and then rapidly drops down, when the feathers go up and catch the air. An arrow-disappointment.

"Saved by the sunrise," she mutters. She never knew the daylight could be so violent. She doesn't want to let him go. "I want to stay with you."

He gets tense. Apparently he expects an outburst of hysteria.

"But if you tell me to go, I'll go," she sighs. He has no idea how much saying each of these words costs her.

The mere prospect of parting with him for long weeks makes her suffer. She would like to cling to him, hold him captive in her kiss. But it is not the best way to demonstrate the strength of her feelings. She knows that it would only freak him out and she would lose that fragile connection they have managed to establish. Maybe... just maybe, there is a promise of something more in the foreseeable future...

A car honks in the alley. A clear sign that her A.R.G.U.S escort is losing their patience.

One more hastily stolen kiss and this time she really needs to go, hating the punctuality of the A.R.G.U.S. guys and the narrow slip of light that falls through the skylights, because they mark the end of the time she could spend with her lover.

He reaches for his mask, apparently with the intent to see her out.

"No, stay, I know my way out," she stops him. She wouldn't be able to bid farewell to him in the presence of A.R.G.U.S. guards. She prefers to have a moment for herself to blink away her tears and regain her composure. She doesn't want to make a scene.

"You'll send for me again, won't you?" she asks hopefully, squeezing his hand.

"I will," he says curtly.

Carrie smiles widely. This promise, no matter how fragile, is all she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hope you liked the story. Who knows, maybe there will a fourth part (or alternatively I'll finally finish His Quiver). You can see a photo of a flu-flu arrow [here](https://the-black-panther.deviantart.com/art/Three-arrows-727796394) (the one in the middle).
> 
> There is quite a number of archery references—if something is unclear and you would like me to elaborate don't hesitate to ask in comment (I can talk about archery all the time).


End file.
